Too Much Talking, Not Enough Listening
by amor-remanet
Summary: Seriously. They're just a pair of leather pants, not an invitation to talk about feelings. SLASH, Dean x Castiel; cracky, schmoopy, excessively Dean!introspection-y.


"I don't know why this is necessary."

Dean groans, knocks his head against the wall behind him, and demands that Cas just _quit his damn bitching already_ and hurry up — Sam's ready to go, Dean was ready first, and he's pretty sure there's at least two other guys checking him out in here, and _they_ haven't been complaining about what Dean wants to dress them in, so unless Cas wants to lose his claim to this sweet piece of ass, he'd better get his act together.

This earns Dean a moment of silence, and something muttered in Enochian that comes out sounding like _Fuck you, and I don't mean that literally_ — or whatever pointless curse on Dean's manhood the idiot angel has kicking around today. Standing on his tiptoes, Cas peeks over the dressing room door and glares down at Dean, eyes burning with a fire that is taking all of this way too goddamn seriously. All Dean does in response is give him a Look. Arched eyebrows and an unruffled shrug of the shoulders, and a half-pout that just asks if Cas is _done yet_.

Apparently, he isn't: "Remind me why I have to wear these again, Dean?" he says, shoving in that upward inflection as a formality because that snake-bite snappy tone of his says pretty clearly that this is not meant as a question.

"Because I said so," Dean says for what must be the fiftieth time today. He should really stop counting, he thinks, considering the fact that _Because I said so_ seems completely lost on Cas. "Gay vampires hunt in gay bars, and if we're going to a _gay bar_ to hunt _gay vampires_, then we have to look _gay_."

This is the rationale behind putting Sam in a pink button down and jeans that actually fit on his gigantic, Sasquatch ass, rather than the baggy ones that are better for working in. It's also the reason why Dean's traded out his usual fare for something classier. ... Well, a t-shirt that's so skin-tight it might as well be painted on and, like Sam, jeans that actually fit him — which make the shirt feel freaking _baggy_ — and considering Dean usually just tosses on whatever doesn't smell like laundry day, that counts as classy. And if they're going to fit in, then someone should look nuclear-level flaming, and since Cas is the only one left, that leaves him.

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean in that way he gets when he can't decide between being confused and being immensely frustrated. "I'm fairly certain that these stereotypes of yours are baseless, or at least ridiculous," he snaps. Dean questions this — he can't not — and Cas's frown deepens. "I _like_ my trench-coat, Dean."

"Yeah, well, do you _want_ to blow the whole case just because you like your trench-coat?"

"If you and Sam are wearing less revealing outfits, then why can't I?"

"Because. I. said. _so_, Castiel. Angel. Of. Annoying. Questions."

Cas considers Dean a moment, tilts his head in that stupid, endearing quizzical way of his. "… You shouldn't grit your teeth like that, Dean. It can't be good for them."

If he weren't so aware of the good-looking gay dudes, Dean would give the fuck up and explode at Cas right now. And Cas _knows_ this — that's the only way to explain the smirk that cuts across his face. Dean wrinkles his nose at Cas, and for his trouble, gets informed: "I'm quite serious about how you've based your rationale for this on stereotypes of how homosexual men dress, Dean. None of the other customers are wearing these—"

"We're in a _store_, though, Cas! Not a _bar_—"

"My point still stands. I hardly think that you would be able to tell whether or not I were homosexual based on my _trench-coat_—"

Dean knocks his head against the wall again, and then slams a fist into the dressing room door, just hard enough to shake Cas up. "Yeah, no, I think I figured out the 'gay' thing when you jumped on my lap during Bobby's _Deep Space Gay_ marathon."

The attempted crack about how gay Bobby's choice of Star Trek is goes right over Cas's head — and unreasonably, Dean thinks. Even a Human Culture Illiterate Ex-Angel should be able to see how _goddamn GAY_ Deep Space Nine is, between the Cardassian tailor guy, the floppy English doctor guy and his friend O'Brien, and all the girls who should just be lesbians and make out because that'd be more fun to watch than them all sitting around and talking about diplomacy or the dignity of humanoid species or blah blah, none of them were as interesting as the crew on the _real_ Star Trek.

But even when faced with Dean's unaccountable brilliance, Cas just blinks and asks, "So why do I need to wear these trousers, then?"

"Because I _said so_, okay?" Dean hates the whine in his voice, but seriously. _Seriously_. This is just getting unfair. One more knock of his head into the wall — and a groan as, finally, it starts to sting — and he continues, "Look. I've been human for my entire life. I know how this shit works. And trust me? You _don't_ want to go to a gay bar in your suit and tie."

"Which is another thing—"

Dean doesn't _mean_ to roll his eyes at Cas this time, it just kind of happens … but it's not like anyone can _blame_ him. Not when Cas has that subtly accusatory, overtly grumpy,_I'm going to lecture you now because I used to be an angel and you're being an idiot_ tone in his voice. Not when he's legitimately doing that lecturing thing for _no good reason_ — and oh. Shit. Cas is still fucking talking, and Dean has no idea what he tuned out:

"— you have no visible problems with _being_ bisexual or with the fact that I inhabit a male body, but I fail to see why you have, for the past two days, been referring to everything as 'gay,' regardless of the concept. … Except for Sam, but of course he has not been spared other creative epithets."

The only thing Dean can say is, "… huh?"

Cas sighs and shakes his head. "I was merely commenting on your repeated use of the term 'gay' to refer to things that are neither cheerful nor homosexual. … Chairs, for instance. And Bobby's Star Trek program—"

"Okay, can we at least be fair and _not_ call that whiny bullshit _Star Trek_—"

"And I posited that, perhaps, you are suffering from unaddressed problems of self-esteem regarding our relationship."

Dean coughs, feels the color drain from his face. "Just … just put the leather pants on, okay, Cas?"

Cas blushes and shakes his head like a bird with ruffled feathers. "I. … I would feel more comfortable with that if you'd leave for a moment."

This time, Dean definitely means to roll his eyes. He means every part of the aggrieved sigh, and he means to give Cas the Look that says _I might not be able to look unimpressed as well as Sam, but believe me, Feathers, I am thoroughly unimpressed right now_. And he agrees to Cas's condition anyway.

As Cas's head ducks back down, Dean has to think that it'd probably be easier for him if he'd just shut up, agree with everything Cas has proposed so far, and let the brat wear his suit and tie and trench-coat and look like a Joe Middle Management when they hit up the Cocksucker, or whatever other ridiculously named bar Sam picked out off the list, and probably get the vamp's attention sooner so they can behead the fucker — but, he reminds himself, heading out for a trawl through the store so Cas will have the _space_ he wants — _but_ resisting him on everything, regardless of how sensible it is or isn't, is a matter of _principles_ at this point. Of standing his damn ground in the face of a know-it-all retired angel.

Dean's making it a point of not agreeing with Cas these days. Ever since he got his ass kicked out of Heaven (again), it's been one long string of downward spiral, getting used to being human crap with him (_again_). Back in Washington, where the Falling went down, it was all _Dean, why am I shivering_, and _it's dark, but I can't see, how unusual_, and _but I've never had any problems standing in the rain before, why on earth would it let a virus into my body_.

While they and Sam drove from Ground Zero, Seattle to Bobby's, Cas's tune changed to _Dean, the backseat is so cramped_ and _Dean, your music is so loud, can't we listen to Sam's song about the strange men who want to put birdhouses in their lovers' souls_ and _I really think that we ought to see if Famine is anywhere nearby, Dean. I feel absolutely ravenous and I highly doubt that your simple-minded explanation addresses the issue properly._

And once they were _at_ Bobby's, it was like dealing with six-year-old Sammy all over again, except that you could shut six-year-old Sammy up by giving him a hug and some fucking Froot Loops. _Cas_ was all, _Are the cans possessed? Why do I have to shoot at them? This seems like a waste of salt rounds_ this, and like, _Dean, you smell like motor oil, and I think this is possibly worse than demon blood stench that hovers around your brother_ that, and _Why do I have to go to bed? I'm not tired … well. I might be tired, but I'm still angel enough that this is not beyond my capabilities_ … right before face-planting on the book he had open at Bobby's kitchen table, and snoring as Dean and Sam carried him upstairs.

About the _only_ good side-effect of Cas Falling is that it got the stick out of his ass enough to _finally_ get Dean's cock in there.

But of course, because it's Cas, there's no making things simple. That'd just be courteous or something, and Cas probably can't stand the thought of going a day without giving Dean a headache — you know, not like Dean's . Dean can't just tell him, "standing in the rain made you get a cold because November in Seattle is _cold_ and _wet_ and that's what happens when you're human" or, "remember how I said that humans need to sleep? Well … you're human now. You need to _sleep_" — no, Cas has to go turn to Sam and learn all about the science behind it, and show off the part where the only bit of angel left in him is how freaky fast he reads things.

But then again, Dean thinks with a sigh, rounding past a shelf of … what he assumes are brightly colored sex toys, he can't really _blame_ Cas for getting on his nerves constantly. Sure, it's annoying, the way he goes on sometimes … but he got kicked out of Heaven for real this time. And Raphael might be dead and gone, leaving the Apocalypse in the position of "never going to happen unless somebody Upstairs goes crazy," and Sam's got his soul back, finally, but with everything Cas had to sacrifice to get that … and with how much he hated turning human the first time around …

Dean comes to a dead stop, nearly crashing into the rack he pulled Cas's leather pants off of, and he realizes: it's probably time he gave Cas an apology.

He doesn't get the chance to do this, though. Mostly because his Sasquatch brother is an interfering bastard and, by the time Dean's done meandering around the store for a third time, has taken his place by the dressing room door, leaning against the wall and looking up at Cas with that sweet, sensitive look he gets when he decides that it's his job to play someone's therapist today. Even though Cas is _Dean's_ ex-angel, not Sam's, so it's not _Sam's_ job to listen to him talk about his problems.

Which, Dean reminds himself, pressing his back up against the wall so they won't notice him eavesdropping, is totally a valid complaint, even though he'll be the first to admit that sometimes, he sucks at listening to problems that aren't Sam's.

"— I just wish to understand it," Cas says, and for all Dean can't see him anymore, he gets the message that Cas is feeling pretty low. Like, if he could whip out his wings and actually expect them to do jack crap, they wouldn't be useful because they'd just hang there and sulk "feeling pretty low."

"Well, which part?" asks Sam. "The one where Dean—"

"All of it."

… At least, for feeling pretty low, Cas is still Cas. Meaning that he still interrupts people whenever the Hell he feels like. In this case, Dean can't even blame him, since hey, Sam was probably thinking of saying something totally chick-y and ridiculous. And at this interjection, Dean has to peek around the corner. Just a little bit — just to make sure that he isn't missing anything by only hearing them — and he moves around just in time to see Sam give Cas a Look, at which Cas rolls his eyes.

"… Fine," the angel says with a huff. "If I must choose specifics, then I would like to understand why your brother seems to have such a problem with our relationship, and with the bond underscoring it."

Dean feels the color drain from his face — _oh, shit_. Did he really make Cas think like that?

"Look, Cas," Sam says, in his _I'm being earnest now and you should believe me more than anyone else_ voice, with the sad puppy eyes to match. "Dean'd be the first to admit that he has problems with intimacy—"

"He seems to think that _I_ have problems with respecting his personal space."

"That's exactly my point — I mean. He's my brother, and I love him … and I'm pretty sure he doesn't _mean_ anything by it. He's just … Here's the thing: I've known Dean's bi for a long time. And I don't know what he's told you, but he's been into you for a long time too … but it's all still kind of new to him, you know? And I definitely mean _all_ of it."

Sam pauses, probably wondering if Cas's big smart angel brain is on the same wavelength as his big smart Gigantor brain — and after a moment of silence, he starts trying to cover his ass: "Look, I mean … there's been a lot of reasons for him to be, well … so deep in the closet he was having tea with Mister Tumnus and the Beavers—"

"I believe your brother prefers coffee, Sam," Cas says. "And I was unaware that beavers lived in closets."

To just about anyone else, the little upward quirk of Cas's lips would be imperceptible, and they'd probably miss the sarcasm for just how straight a face he can put on when he wants to — not to mention that devious glimmer that the angel gets in his eyes sometimes, and how it pops up now, only to disappear in the blink of an eye. And for a second, Dean wonders if Cas knows that he's here, dropping eaves, and if that little smirk was for him, to make sure that _he_ got the joke underlying Cas's attempt at playing dumb-by-way-of-being-too-literal (as if Dean wouldn't see that from a mile away), even while Sam's just standing there dumbfounded, wondering if all of their attempts at teaching Cas about human culture have amounted to jack squat.

And that … Dean's not even sure what it's doing to him. He runs his tongue over his lips, then over his teeth, then over the lips again because, sure, his lips are chapped and they taste terrible, but it's better than paying attention to his stomach, which is flopping around like he's on a damn airplane or something. … But it's not _all_ bad, or even half-bad. His cheeks flush, probably making him look pinker than Sam's shirt, and he can't find it in him to care that, if anyone walked by now, they'd probably think he had the emotional maturity of a teenage girl who got stood up on prom night (which, in fairness, he's pretty sure he doesn't right now. _Right now_? That might be asking a little much of him).

And in the back of Dean's mind, there's a niggling thought that this kind of thing — well, things; how Cas gets this kind of reaction in him, and how Cas's smirk is just _adorable_, and how all he wants to do now is — all of that? That's exactly why he didn't just give Cas a fake credit card, some cash, and a salt-gun and drop his ass at a bus stop when he Fell, the way he inexplicably thought he'd end up.

That's why he loves Cas, one of many reasons, even if he sucks at showing it more often than he doesn't.

Not that this realization keeps him from making a mental reminder to make Sam _suffer_ for putting his history of closeted-ness in terms of the fucking _Chronicles of Narnia_.

… Seriously. Dean Winchester's closeted-ness is not the children's Jesus allegory of closeted-ness. If he has to be a fantasy series, then he's clearly _The Lord of the Rings_ (and despite what got claimed when he, Sam, Cas, and Bobby played a drinking game with the movies, Dean is _obviously_ Aragorn and not Gimli. There's no way in Hell he's Gimli. Crowley can be Gimli, if Bobby absolutely has to keep fucking the son of a bitch) — but it goes without saying that the only _real_ choice for Dean is _Star Trek_. He'd even take Bobby's _Deep Space Nine_ crap as long as he doesn't have to be likened to the _Chronicles of Narnia_ ever. again.

_**Ever**_.

— and, oh crap, Sam and Cas are still talking:

"I'm not trying to make excuses for him, okay?" Sam says, huffing and tapping his head against the wall, probably because he's too afraid of brain damage to let himself smack it. "But our Dad wasn't exactly open-minded, and the whole hunter community's … not _really_ homophobic but again, not really open-minded either, and Dean's not used to relationships, period, let alone actually _feeling_ something for someone without it blowing up in his face … and with the kind of emphasis Dad put on him about being a _man_ … I mean, if you just give him some time, he'll stop being such a _total_ jerk … you know what I mean?"

God, with a brilliant and probing explanation like that, Dean has no idea why Sam isn't playing marriage counselor to more emotionally stunted drifters and their equally emotionally stunted angels.

Cas narrows his eyes, furrows his brow, and frowns — not in disgust or thinking too hard about things, this time (the ways he _usually_ frowns, at least as far as Dean's noticed), but in … well, it _looks_ like resignation. And he exhales like he's burying somebody, instead of like he just doesn't want to put on a pair of freaking leather pants and make this day easier for all three of them. And for Dean's part … he feels like someone just dropped a giant brick of ice into his stomach. Like he just had to shoot some poor kid's puppy while the kid fucking _watched_.

"I know what you mean," he says, and gives Sam a nod. "But I would ask of you, and of Dean, were he here … do either of you really know how much I've sacrificed?"

They keep talking.

It's Sam and Cas, for God's sake, of course they keep talking.

But instead of listening, Dean stalks out of the store with only one thing in mind — and that is the very pressing question of what the best public display of affection is.

Unfortunately, by the time Dean makes it to the Radio Shack a few blocks down, he comes to the joint realization that: 1. hardly anyone sells goddamn boom-boxes anymore (and sure, he eventually finds one at the Salvation Army, but it only plays CDs, so his point still stands); and 2. maybe, just maybe, he should consult something other than _Say Anything_ for an idea of what constitutes a meaningful romantic display.

Double unfortunately, the only other rom-coms he remembers seeing are _She's All That_ and _Ten Things I Hate About You_, and he only remembers those because Cassie insisted that they were "essential viewing for everyone in their generation." … Some "essential viewing" they turned out to be. Dean can't think of any big romantic displays from them, except for Heath Ledger singing at Julia Stiles, and that one's out because for one thing, Cas has likened Dean's singing voice to drunken howler monkeys before, and for another, Dean doesn't have a convenient marching band on hand right now.

Hell, he only saw _Say Anything_ because Lisa thought he needed a break from the bendiest weekend of their lives. (Which he totally didn't.)

None of these facts keep him from dropping the money-that-wasn't-his-thank-God-the-Salvation-Army-thrift-shop-took-his-fake-credit-card on the boom-box, though, or from stopping at a seedy-looking Thai take-out place that's bathing in the stench of grease to get some new experiment for Cas to try. (Even if he tries complaining about the fact that it's not the Pad Cashew from the place he likes _best_, never mind that that place is back in Sioux Falls.) More importantly, none of these facts keep Dean from being back at the store, by the parking meter, leaning against the Impala when Sam and Cas finally come out.

Not even the half-naked hot chicks offering coupons for half-price massages manage to keep Dean from being there to meet his angel and his Sasquatch.

His mission very nearly gets derailed at the sight of Cas, who inexplicably decided to wear his new clothes out of the store … but, then again, Dean's pretty sure that no one can_blame_ him for that. Sam must've found him a new shirt, since Dean remembers leaving Cas with something mesh-y and kinky-looking, not a borderline-respectable green t-shirt that only misses that mark by hugging Cas's body tighter than Dean ever has. … And having the words _Yes, it hurt when I fell from Heaven. Now pay for my drink and piss off._scrawled across his chest in bright blue letters. _Then_ there are the leather pants to consider.

Dean not only gets choked up at them, he almost drops the damn boom-box, and he can't help thinking that he is easily one of the biggest idiots on the face of the planet — not just for his various screw-ups as a boyfriend, but also because he didn't think to get Cas into tight leather pants until a case required it. The things could be painted on and they'd probably look about the same, clinging to Cas's legs and highlighting the subtle curves of his hips, of the muscles in his thighs, and making Dean feel like the _only_reaction that makes sense is giving up on the plan and jumping Cas right here, right now, in broad daylight, in the middle of the freaking sidewalk.

A plan's a plan, though, and once he has the bag of take-out in Cas's hands, Dean leans into the car, turns the radio back on, and, wearing the biggest grin he can muster, holds up the boom-box as his song starts up …

And, yeah, Dean gets annoyed when people start glaring at him whining about how loudly he's blasting "Birdhouse In Your Soul" off of Sam's cassette.

And sure, Sam physically restraining him is the only reason Dean doesn't throw the boom-box at some little out bitch who calls them _filthy degenerates_.

And okay, it's not exactly Dean's idea of a romantic conclusion, having to pile into the car and speed away from some uppity traffic cop who just happened to be wandering by on his rounds of handing out parking tickets, all to the soundtrack of _other_ They Might Be Giants songs, none of which even manage to be endearing, if anyone cares about Dean's opinion.

But at their first red light, Cas leans into the front seat and kisses his cheek.

"I just thought you should know," he says, wearing another one of his smirks that looks like it could be meant only for Dean, "that you are completely ridiculous, and you forgot to ask the people at the restaurant for utensils."

"Yeah …" Dean shrugs, gives Cas a smirk of his own. "And I say 'gay' too much and don't talk about things with anybody, especially not you—"

"Oh my _God_," Sam groans from the shotgun passenger's seat. "At least save it until you two have a space that _I'm not stuck in_."

Ignoring Sam entirely, Cas nods. "True. Very true. But…" He smiles, even if it flashes across his face and fades away in the blink of an eye. "Moments such as these wouldn't quite be as fulfilling if you were entirely perfect. Nor do I think I would enjoy them as much."

The light turns green before Dean can say anything else, but Cas gives him another peck on the cheek before returning to his seat. And, if anyone feels like asking Dean's opinion on the whole thing, he'd say that this kind of payoff makes everything else completely worth it.


End file.
